


The Fall

by 0Rocky41_7



Series: Guinevere Lavellan: This Shit is Weird [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Dreams, F/M, Internal Conflict
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-12-17 10:16:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21052745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0Rocky41_7/pseuds/0Rocky41_7
Summary: Solas dreamed of Arlathan, and there he saw Lavellan. The hour was late, but she insisted he stay.





	The Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Who likes symbolically significant dreams and three part narrative structure? I do! 
> 
> Solas is just torn up about not telling Lavellan the truth. Naturally his conscience torments him because he's a damn liar.
> 
> See more about Gwen on her [tumblr tag.](https://imakemywings.tumblr.com/tagged/guinevere%20lavellan)

Solas dreamed of Arlathan.

It was a dream, but it was real, and all about him were the lights and sounds and sights of the old empire. The hour was late, twilight well past, and above the domed rooftops the stars twinkled and shone. The elves in their flowing regalia gathered in clusters on balconies and in drawing rooms that opened out into the night sky, drinking and laughing and speaking.

He wandered through these rooms, closing his eyes to listen to the clink of glasses and all around him the sound of Elvish, spoken as it was meant to be. His feet guided him through the soft darkness, lit by floating lanterns and balls of pure light. It was out on a balcony there that he found Lavellan.

Before the balcony a waterfall babbled into the darkness, and she leaned against the railing of the balcony to watch it. She was not as she was waking—short and small with the shadow of her people’s oppression in her eyes—but tall and willowy as the elves had once been, her tight curls unbound and beaded with decorations of silver. When she turned to look at him, there was lightness in her eyes and a smile of the assured on her lips, with none of the weight of the Inquisition on her slender shoulders. There was Lavellan—and she was Elvhen.

The glow of the moon illuminated her dark skin and for a moment, Solas did not breathe. Tiny silver cuffs adorned her ears and her face was bare of treacherous _vallaslin_. The dress she wore was fine elven weaving, cascading off her as if it weighed little more than a breath of wind, leaving her shoulders bare and her sleeves draping low off her arms. She reached out her hand and he came to her as naturally as the water continued to pour over the rock behind her.

“You came,” she said. He did not hear his own response. Lavellan held his hand and pressed his knuckles to her lips. “Shh. Do you hear? Out in the distance, the bird call? The season is changing.” She turned her gaze over the edge of the balcony once more. “The world turns. What will we see this time, I wonder?”

“What do you see now?” he heard himself ask.

“The silver of the stars,” she whispered in delight. “The source of all light and memory. The moon, resplendent in her gleaming mystery. There, the mountain tops, frosted with snow where the wolves will come down when the weather turns.” The smile spread across her face. “The lush forests to the south, all vivid with flora and the whispered spells of ages. I have seen the world, my love, and it is _beautiful._”

Her profile outlined with the light of the sky and in the background, the murmur of the elves and the song of their instruments. Solas gazed in wonder, but she did not turn to him as she might have in the waking world—she was captivated by the bird song beyond their sight.

“Would you not come inside?” When he spoke, the words were both his, and a stranger’s, as if someone else spoke with his tongue. He was both participant, and viewer.

“Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head. “There is much to be seen in the darkness, if one knows where to look.” Her eyes crinkled with a mischievous smile and she moved away from him. Without thinking, he trailed after her, resuming a place by her side when she found a new spot from which to watch the goings-on out in the world.

“It may grow cold, here by the water,” he said.

“I am not cold. But I would not leave this for the cold.”

“You may become weary,” he said.

“I am not weary. But if I were, I would not go inside.”

“I wish you to come in,” he said. “Come with me.”

“I wish you to stay,” Lavellan said, leaning back against the railing and tilting her chin up to look at him. She was nearly of a height with him and he did not miss the challenge in her eyes. “Stay with me.” Was there a difference between the glimmering flowers in her hair and the stars above? He could not see it anymore.

“Then I will stay, my heart.” He pressed a hand over his chest and joined her at the railing. “But the hour will come when I must go.”

“Then you must go,” she said. “But for now, you will stay. And perhaps later, you will not go.” She put a hand over his arm and he laid his head on her shoulder. He felt the warm press of her cheek and the brush of her hair against the top of his head.

“Perhaps I will not,” he murmured.

When he woke in his bed in Skyhold, his gaze turned immediately to his side, but Lavellan was not there, curls bound or otherwise. She was in her room up in the tower and he almost threw back the covers to go to her, drawn to her as he was in the dream. It was good she was not there, though—not telling the truth was never harder than around Lavellan. If she had been there, he might have woken her, and he might have told her about the dream. She might have questioned him, and he might have shared details. If she had asked for the truth, he thought with a thrill of pure terror, he might have told her. No—it was dangerous to have Lavellan there when he woke, and when he went to sleep. These moments were too weak, too vulnerable, to trust himself.

It was best she was not there, and it would be better if he did not wish she was.

But he dreamed of Arlathan again, and the Lavellan who was Elvhen, and it did not displease him.

The hour was small, the sun did not yet tint the far horizon, and he sat astride a hart, white and brown. Through the grass, she rode ahead on her own mount, brown as rich soil with an elegant rack.

“Guinevere!” She did not heed his call, but pushed on through the swaying stalks, turning over her shoulder to smile. “Where are you going?”

“To fetch the sun!” Her laughter rang through the open sky and she spurred her hart on, doubling back to circle around him. “How slow you are! Does something make the wolf shy?” She grinned and stretched her cheeks, unmarked by Ghilan'nain’s tainted brand. He started towards her and she darted away with another burst of laughter. Back in the ruins in the Emerald Graves, she had made him chase her so—and how she had kissed him when he caught her! This Lavellan, he thought, had no such intentions. “Come, ferocious one. There is much for you to see.”

“I cannot,” he said, shaking his head. “There is not time, Guinevere. The sun is rising.”

“So let it rise.” She turned her hart back into the field, nudging it onwards.

“Let it rise!” Solas was forced to hurry after her. “We will not be able to see, then. The world will be different.”

“There is time yet,” she said. “Time for you to learn.” A frown set Solas’ face and there were things that tugged at the back of his mind, clawing for his attention, but he could not summon any of them to mind. “Come along, terror of hares and harts!”

“You mistake the hour,” he insisted as pushed his hart along, striving in vain to match her mount’s stride. “It grows too late, Guinevere. There is no time left.”

“How you worry!” She threw an impatient glance back at him, spurring her hart faster. “Do you not trust me?” she called. Solas had no choice but to drive his hart into a run to keep up with her. “Do you not see?”

“See what?” The wind rushed against his face, breathing exhilaration into his lungs, and he had to raise his voice to be heard, had to remind himself of his urgency, lest he dissolve into laughter like her, and forget his purpose.

“The light!” Lavellan cried. “You fear to tread in darkness, but you do not see the light!” She slowed her mount until his had caught pace and then she rode beside him, the wind rushing through her thick mane, and smile tenderly. “Let me show you.” She held her hand out, but he hesitated, and would not take it.

“I cannot,” he said. “The hour is too late, Guinevere.”

“Trust me, Solas!”

“No, I cannot.” He reined his hart in as Lavellan shot off into the dim morning. She did not wait for him, nor turn to see if he followed—in a two breaths’ time, he had lost sight of her. The sun’s first fingers stretched into the sky, staining it red and his heart began to pound in his chest, as if he ran from the hunters. The hour was too late—and Lavellan had gotten away.

_I could stop_.

Solas woke in Skyhold, his throat nearly closed up with panic. It was not too late. With the orb retrieved, he might safely hide it somewhere. He might forget his plans—he might bury himself in Lavellan’s sweet words and softly calloused hands and let his _vhenan_ take his mind away from destruction and death. The ache in his throat changed, but did not fade, and the truth of this burned his eyes so he had to sit up and press his hands against them. His hands moved to the covers, to put them back, and go to his love, to let the pillow of her breast and the tenderness of her voice soothe away his pains, but instead he balled the blankets up in his fists and forced himself to stay. Her name trembled on his lips but he would not go to her. If he went to her, he might not leave. If he did not leave, the future of the Elvhen was set. 

It was best that he did not go to her, and it would be better if he did not wish to do it.

Once more, Solas dreamed of Arlathan, resplendent in her glory, the towering peaks of her roofs crowned with cloud and mist, so the ground could not be seen.

Tables were set with rich runners of red and gold and brown, with crystal-cut glasses and cutlery more delicate than any he had seen in Val Royeaux. There by the railing, was Lavellan, chin in hand, looking out over the city, with gold at her ears and throat and wrists. Her solemn face broke into a gentle smile when she saw him and she gestured to the seat across from here. There had not been food there, but there was when he sat, frowning deeply.

“Guinevere,” he said.

“Yes, my love?” When she smiled, the softness in her eyes was just as she looked in the waking realm.

“I must go,” he said.

“Oh, stay,” she said.

“I can’t.”

“Stay, dear one,” she said, reaching for her glass to sip the thick nectar. “There is no need for you to go.”

“The need is great,” he said. “I must go.”

“Stay a moment, at least,” she said, gesturing to the food. “When we have eaten, you may go, and I will kiss you goodbye.” The faint color that slipped into the warm brown of her cheeks was familiar too—but Solas was finding it difficult to remember the world outside the dream. He picked up his fork.

Other elves were around them, filling the air with their Elvish chatter, of halla and iron and the nature of the stars. The birds did not call, but the elves made merry as was their wont.

“We should not be here,” he said, looking around at the others. “Guinevere, come with me.” Her laughter was loud and unabashed.

“Oh, dear! You know I can’t do that,” she said, shaking her head with a smile. “What is there to flee? How flighty you are! What makes the wolf turn tail?” Teasing light sparkled in her eyes, curving up the corners of her lips. Solas did not laugh, nor did his expression soften. “Stay, and be content.” She filled his glass with the pitcher on the table, waving her hand so this task accomplished itself.

“I don’t have time,” he insisted, rising to his feet, lifting his voice. “Your understanding fails you, there is no time left!” Lavellan’s reproachful gaze made him feel as a student being scolded, but he did not take his seat. The clouds rolled and cracked, and Lavellan turned her gaze to the sky. The other elves began to take notice. She rose from her seat to peer over the edge of the balcony as a fearsome tremor wracked the structure. It came again and again, and the elves began to cry out, trying to stabilize the floor. The clouds turned black, and green, and Solas thought the Breach had invaded his sleep.

“The towers!” A voice that was not Lavellan’s shouted and they all looked to see the spires of Arlathan crumbling as if they were made of sand. Solas turned to Lavellan, who was transfixed, her eyes full moons, her feet frozen in place. The quaking of the ground worsened, rattling plates and glasses of the tables, then turning them over entirely, and soon their tower too, was giving way.

The frightened murmuring of the elves became a clamor as they desperately tried to stop the shaking.

“The spells aren’t working!” Floating homes and streets held up by ribbons of cloud were collapsing across the city and those great mages were helpless to stop it. The screaming began then, as the floor began to give way. There was no ground beneath them, only blackness, and the terrible green that seemed to be cleaving the world in two.

“The Dread Wolf!” a voice howled. “The Dread Wolf has betrayed us!” Lavellan whipped around to look at Solas. His hand jerked out, reaching for her, as a crack rent the balcony in two, and they began to fall away from the rest of the building. Solas lunged forward, grasping for her, but he could not catch her.

“Guinevere!” he called. “Reach out your hand!” Her eyes pinned him, knocking the breath from his lungs, but she would not reach for him. The remains of the balcony fell apart, and he saw the breathless fear in her eyes, but still she would not reach for him, and then she fell, and was swallowed by the darkness, with the wails of the Elvhen all around her, pleading, cursing, sobbing.

The darkness blasted away his sight and then he watched from outside himself—he was there, in the temple, dressed in his battle armor, staggering away from the orb as it hit the ground. He watched himself stumble, watched his knees hit the ground with a clang, followed then by the rest of him. The orb rolled away and came to rest against the wall, and he watched his eyes flutter shut despite his efforts, not to open again for a thousand years.

When he woke in Skyhold, he was throwing the blankets off before he was even fully conscious. His feet hit the ground but he did not feel the chill of the stone as he pulled on his tunic and crossed the empty throne room, making his way up unfinished hallways and cobwebbed stairwells to the Inquisitor’s suite. Lavellan often complained the room was far too much for only her, but Ambassador Montilyet insisted no one else could take it. Solas’ step slowed as he began to near the top of the staircase into her room, and he paused at the top step, one hand on the balustrade.

From there, she was just a lump among the blankets. He should turn and go, go back downstairs, back to his room, shut the door, sit alone through his old regrets and false memories and mistakes beyond counting. He did not—instead, he went forward, until he could see her face, pressed against the pillow, hair pulled back in the complex series of braids and buns she wore at all times, lest she be awoken and blinded by her own hair. His gaze traced the _vallaslin_ on her forehead, arcing with deceptive elegance above her beautiful brow. Her hand lay beside her head, the glow of the anchor mark illuminating the pillow with a sickly green.

Solas’ hand reached out to her, to touch her face, her hair, her hand. To run his fingers down her neck, trace the shape of her collarbone, to pull her to him. If she woke, she would want to know what was wrong. He would have to tell her he dreamed, and she would want to know of what. So he might tell her about the fall of Arlathan, and she would marvel at his dream, and wonder if he had seen something true. She would ask why it upset him so, and the words that came to his mouth could be the truth. Once he had told her, he might forget about his plan. And if he did that, the Elvhen were doomed.

So he withdrew his hand, and did not touch her, or wake her. The ache that burned through his breast was fire, and he could have wept for want of hiding his face in the soft crook of her neck, feeling her arms around him, spilling his awful, wretched truths. But he stepped back, away from her. The hour was late, and it would do them no good for him to wake her now, not to let her rest.

Solas’ fingertips burned as he walked away, as though he had singed them with the desire to brush them over Lavellan’s skin. He went back down the stairs, through the hallways, and across the throne room, to his own chamber. He sat on the bed and felt that it was too small for Lavellan to share with him anyway. Why here? Why here and now, not then, in Arlathan? For centuries his heart had been his own, yet now when he needed all his strength, it betrayed him? He must not allow it—his dalliance with Guinevere could not derail his intentions, no matter how he had to swallow his own words around her. If he revealed his secrets to her, she might persuade him to surrender, and that was untenable.

It was best not to tell Lavellan the truth, and it would be better if he didn’t want to tell her.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write about dreamy elves.
> 
> [On tumblr](https://imakemywings.tumblr.com/post/188379474260/the-fall)
> 
> [On Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/878701)


End file.
